The Second to Last Step
by mysongsknowwhatudidinthelight
Summary: Sherlock can finally return home. John's daily texts have become increasingly worrisome. Oneshot, small Johnlock. Post-Reichenbach. Character death.


**A/N: Sorry, I had a massive attack of feels and had to write this. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any aspects of any Sherlock franchises (except for a pretty baller poster).**

* * *

Finally. The sweet blanket of peace draped over Sherlock as he stood over the body of the last man who worked for Moriarty. Not only was the criminal dead, but now his entire network- all his employees, snipers (like the blonde whose blood was pooling at Sherlock's feet), and assassins were. Two years had gone by. Twenty-four months, seven hundred and thirty days, one hundred four weeks.

Seventeen thousand, five hundred and thirty one weeks- yet not a single day went by without a small buzz emitting from Sherlock's phone. Texts, every day. Not Mycroft, as one would expect -no, when he needed to talk to Sherlock, he called- but instead from the one and only man that made Sherlock's life worthwhile. The reason he was doing all of this, the one and only light out of a seemingly endless dark tunnel. John Hamish Watson.

_It's weird your phone hasn't been disconnected. I thought Mycroft would have had it done ages ago. JW  
Recieved Nov. 26, 2012_

_Remember when you shot the smiley face on the wall? I do. Thinking about it now. Are you bored, up in Heaven? JW  
Recieved Dec. 8, 2012_

_Happy Christmas. It's not here. JW  
Recieved Dec. 25, 2012_

_Been a year now. Ella says things should start getting easier now. They're not. JW  
Recieved Jan. 18, 2013_

Variants of these would appear on Sherlock's screen with the ever-present 'JW.' The worst part about this was not that he wasn't going to have the last word (though perhaps he would), but that he couldn't reply. John didn't know he was alive; he couldn't. It was far too dangerous. Sherlock opened up today's message, today's sledgehammer that made another crack in his ice-cold heart.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Thanks for the memories. See you soon. JW  
__Recieved Mar. 9, 2013_

See you soon? Sherlock's heart plummeted. No, no no no. Not now. Not after Sherlock would finally be able to return. This wasn't fair, _this wasn't fair!_ He ran out the door of the warehouse, not caring about the quickly fading bloody footprints in his wake. He ran to the nearest main road, hailing down a cab.

"221B Baker Street. Quickly," he panted into the window, then hopped into the cab and slammed the door shut. He would not let John kill himself. Not after he'd finally be able to come back from the dead.

* * *

John Watson pressed send, sitting rigidly in his chair. He hadn't been able to bear anywhere but the flat he'd shared with Sherlock, so it was the small, sofa-like chair with the Union Jack pillow. He put his head into his hands, feeling one last moment of regret for Mrs. Hudson. She'd find his body, wouldn't she? Poor dear, can't keep any of her tenants alive. Not that she'd had anything to do with either death, but... Must be bad for business.

John closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his hands. Sod this life. Sherlock was dead, he was never coming back no matter how hard John wished. Sherlock, whom John had only blatantly realized he was in love with. Sure, he "wasn't gay." He wasn't homosexual, he was Holmesexual.

Standing up, John shuffled (he hadn't really walked ever since the fall, just shuffle as though the grief weighed him down) to his room. He opened a drawer in his desk, removing his second trustworthy friend: his pistol. A simple design, yet somehow elegant. But it was functional, that was the point. Who cared if it looked nice?

The doctor made his way back to his chair, again sitting down. The gun rested against his forehead, pointed straight in. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to have one last moment. Two more minutes to remember Sherlock, remember the one and only love of his life. All the smiles, cups of tea, late nights and early mornings... He sighed. Maybe in Heaven -if he even made it there- he'd remember things more clearly. The certain, precise shade of Sherlock's eyes. The look in them when John did something good. He put the gun down, grabbing a pad of paper and a pen.

_Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly (and Sherlock if he's watching from up there),_

_I'm sorry. I couldn't live how I was anymore. Without Sherlock, my life could never be the same. You can kind of relate, right? I loved him. I just realized it a minute before I wrote this, but I was absolutely, irrevocably in love with the great Sherlock Holmes from the second we met until the second I died. I wish I know it when I still had him._

_If it's any condolence, I'm probably with him now. Maybe, up there, we can finally be together in a way that this world, full of evil-doers and evil acts, could never let us be. Imagine us up there, holding hands and keeping you all safe. _

_Thanks for the memories. I love you all too._

_JW_

* * *

Sherlock tapped his fingers anxiously against his thigh- this was the third time he'd called John's mobile, but it only rang once before going to voicemail. It was off, typical of people planning to die. "Come on, come on," he muttered, both to the phone and cabbie. Neither one responded.

He wasn't likely to ever admit it, but Sherlock was scared. John, who he'd been through so much with, kill himself? The one and only person who was ever able to put up with Sherlock without leaving, without trying to punch him all the time (or at least acting on it), just cease to exist? John had his own room- no, his own _wing_ in Sherlock's mind palace. There was no way he'd let something as important as John ever die, especially if it was John himself. No, no. The idea itself was unthinkable. The words "dead" and "John" never belonged in the same sentence, unless there was a negative preposition included.

And yet, the message could only mean one thing: John thought Sherlock was dead. He said he'd "see him soon"- therefore, he'd be able to join Sherlock, probably in Heaven. John would kill himself, because he needed Sherlock? Ridiculous but not surprising. John should have been getting better, his life back to normal. But he wasn't, nothing was getting better. Which made Sherlock have to get there even faster.

* * *

John loaded the gun, or rather unloaded it. A single bullet remained.

* * *

Sherlock rushed out of the cab after shoving a ten-pound note into the driver's hand, opening the door slowly. He couldn't disturb John or startle him; God only knows how delicate the situation was right now. He took five steps up -only thirteen more, breathe Sherlock- when he heard an awful sound. One he never wished to hear again. A single cocking of John's rifle.

* * *

John slid the chamber back into place. he cocked the gun, the pull and release making a loud and satisfying noise. It'd been so long. He raised it to his temple.

* * *

Nine more steps, eight more steps... Three more. Sherlock's right foot was on the second to last step when it happened, and he almost fell down the stairs himself. Only John would have been able to make that last-moment sigh, before the gun emitted a single, loud shot.

No.

No.

_No._

Sherlock's knees gave out, and he clutched the railing for support. John had done it before he'd been able to stop it. He should have shouted, he should have _done something! Anything! _But no, and as Sherlock finished climbing the stairs, he was surprised to feel tears well up in his eyes. He pushed open the door. There... In his chair. Of course. He'd want to be where Sherlock the "angel" would have known to get him. The tears began to rush down his face as he saw a piece of paper -the _only_ piece of paper- on the coffee table. A note. He picked it up, quickly scanning it with blurry eyes.

John loved him.

He looked from the note to the doctor's lifeless body. Of course. It all made sense now, of course John loved him. Sherlock approached John's body. "I love you too," he whispered, bending low to kiss John's unbloodied cheek.

John Hamish Watson was dead, and Sherlock Holmes was alive. The universe seemed to mock the detective. He couldn't help but smile a last, sad smile before pulling out his own gun.

* * *

Molly Hooper walked past the crumbling gravestones, over to a pine tree. There were two freshly filled graves near the trunk, both made of marble. One black, one white. John and Sherlock were buried next to each other, per Mycroft's request, but Molly wondered if it was only her that visited them now.

Did anyone else even remember the world's only Consulting Detective and his Blogger?

* * *

**A/N: I'm crying too, don't worry.**

**Review please? This is my first attempt at character death. It'd mean a lot. Thanks!**


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